


Memories of Tomorrow

by writing_as_tracey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark!Starks, F/M, Faceless Arya Stark, Fireproof Jon, Gen, Genre: Political, Globetrotting Starks, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Stark Family are Wargs (A Song of Ice and Fire), The Starks have a lot of unresolved issues, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Three-Eyed Raven Bran Stark, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Wargs & Warging (A Song of Ice and Fire), Westeros magic, Westerosi Politics, Work In Progress, genre: action/adventure, mix of books and show, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-19 03:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29620161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_as_tracey/pseuds/writing_as_tracey
Summary: At the base of a heart tree north of the Wall, Benjen Stark's nephews and nieces appear - older than the children he knows in Winterfell - bitter, cruel, and biting. A pack divided but with horror on their lips and blood on their hands. Their past is a nightmare, and despite how the Stark siblings lick at their individual wounds, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives - and they need to become a pack again if they want to avoid the mistakes of their pasts in the new future they have been offered.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark
Comments: 42
Kudos: 212





	Memories of Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> This story is... _very_ different to [The Road to Victory](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635141) despite it also being a time travel fix-it. To some degree, this is Stark wank, because I adore the Starks as a family unit and I want them happy. **BUT** , these Starks appear in this story moments after their deaths -- and they're not all in the right frame of mind to play nice. So, to some degree, this is going to be my darkest fic, with the Stark siblings being _not nice_ to one another, and others, until they're reminded of their real enemy. 
> 
> As a reminder, this is a side-project to "Road to Victory". I'm actually near done with all those chapters, so once that's complete I'll focus on this and my _other_ time-travel GoT story, which is a huge departure from Road and this story. So consider this a teaser of what's to come for this story, which in my mind is going to be a **much** longer and detailed fic.

Memories of Tomorrow

writing_as_tracey

* * *

_I’m going to tell you a story. It’s going to sound ridiculous. The longer I talk, the more rational it’s going to appear…_

\- Edge of Tomorrow (2014)

**

I:

_I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory_

_When’s it gonna get me?_

_In my sleep? Seven feet ahead of me?_

_If I see it comin’, do I run or do I let it be?_

\- Hamilton, "My Shot"

* * *

For years after, Benjen would never be able to explain how it happened. He would be able to describe everything _before_ , and everything _after_ , in exquisite detail.

Before:

The snow was falling thickly, large flakes that floated gently from the sky but numerous in number, blanketing the horizon in a white sheen. The clouds that hung low in the sky were a dark, stormy grey, with the pale sun trying to pierce through but utterly failing except in small, thin beams that lit upon pockets of the Haunted Forest. There was no breeze, and the air was cold and wet, and each exhale was a puff of white in front of Benjen’s face. His ears and the tip of his nose were red and cold, and his joints ached, but his steps were soft and quiet in the freshly fallen snow.

Everything was muted in the Haunted Forest, even the breathy pants of his fellow brothers behind him as they trekked through the low-hanging branches, heavy with snows on them and under sweeping canopies of evergreen needles. Sometimes, they heard the faint caws of a raven or the skittering of some animal in the brush below as they made their way to the familiar grove where the weirwood heart tree stood near Castle Black.

There were a few new recruits with them, swearing to the Old Gods instead of in the bailey at Castle Black, and Benjen, who kept to his Gods, for all that they had failed his prayers in the years since Lyanna, Brandon, and his father’s deaths, led them past the wall to swear their oaths.

Then - there was a flash, like a sudden snowstorm that created an ensuring whiteout, the sun bouncing off the sudden influx and fury of snowflakes, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut and gasp as a wickedly cold wind swept through the trees --

The trunks shook and the branches rattled and scraped against one another, a truly awful sound --

A raven cawed loudly somewhere --

And then the wind died down, the sun muted, there was nothing but eerie silence --

After:

Benjen blinked back the ice that clung to his eyelashes and started barking orders immediately, checking on Edd and Alyn and their new recruits, only to pause, his voice dying as he stared at the ground at the foot of the weirwood tree in shock.

The once-pristine white snow at the base of the tree was dotted and splattered red with fresh blood, originating from two of the six bodies that suddenly appeared as the storm did.

The oldest and youngest seemed to be the injured ones: a young boy with a shockingly red mop of curls, gurgling as he choked on blood from invisible wounds. He was dressed in Northern fashion, tattered but good-quality clothes, even as he flopped onto his back and stared up at the overcast sky with bright blue eyes, spasming as he tried to catch his breath.

The other injured man - for he was, with his thick auburn beard - heaved and struggled to drag himself across the snow toward the tree, leaving long streaks of red behind, although there were no visible marks on his body. His clothes were good quality as well, and he had a thick fur coat in Stark grey - and most curiously, a crown made of iron.

Benjen stepped forward, ready to offer help when one of the other immobile figures shot up from where she rested, turned onto her side, and vomited, bits of her sick catching against her long red hair that reminded Benjen of his goodsister. She frantically ran her hands over her hair, her face, neck, and body as though checking for something.

It seemed that whatever held the other three had broken, and the dark-haired bodies jerked; the larger of the two was a man, older than the other, with a long, pale Stark face and wide eyes, rising unsteadily to his feet and grasping for an imaginary sword even as he swayed, his unfocused eyes moving around the clearing by the tree, his voice slurring as he demanded, “C’mere you fuck’rs, I can do this al’day!”

The other rolled to their knees and sat on their haunches, and Benjen thought it was another young boy until he saw the sharp, feminine features on the girls’ face. She seemed to come to herself far quicker than the others, but there was something unnerving in her silent, assessing gaze.

The final figure was a young man who came into consciousness with a choked cry. His face screwed up and tears dripped down his cheeks as he rolled to his side, arms straining toward his thighs as he sobbed and cried, “Oh, Gods - oh, Gods, it hurts, it hurts so much!” and “I can’t see, why can’t I see? _Why can’t I see?!_ ”

It was shock, Benjen decided, later, that kept him, and the Night’s Watch brothers from moving. Bodies where bodies should not be? Strange storms? Blood without wounds? There was no explanation.

Slowly, the young men and women turned to lucidity, the younger girl first, and then the one standing, who looked all Stark as he leaned against the heart tree; then, the redhead girl and the two curly-haired boys with auburn-brown hair and the final boy, still lying in the snow struggling, wiggling his way toward the tree, a hand stretched out to touch the bone-white bark.

“Ayra? Sansa?” the Stark-man asked, blinking to focus on the two girls.

Benjen’s heart stopped.

“You’re alive?” he continued with a breathy voice.

“Apparently so,” murmured the redhead, unsteadily rising to her feet. She moved immediately to the youngest boy, hauling him up and smoothing her hands down his chest.

“Gerroff,” the young teen muttered, weakly shoving against her.

“You’re bleeding, Rickon,” the redhead - _Sansa??_ Like his niece?? - muttered. “From - from - the arrows--”

The boy - Rickon, Gods, hadn’t Ned sent him a raven saying Cat had just recently given birth to the next Stark, who they named after his father, Rickard? - grunted, a hand touching several places on his chest and pulling it away to reveal they were clean, despite the dark shine on his clothing. “Not anymore.”

“Robb?” whispered the Stark-looking man, eyes wide on the other man, who was hauling himself up by using the tree as support.

The man turned his head to look at the Stark lookalike, recognizing the voice, but there was a weary, strained look to him when he muttered, “Snow. _Jon_. Where - where are we…? I thought - the Twins --”

The redhead woman choked back a sob, clutching the youngest to her.

“--Arrows - so many arrows - Gods, mother - _Talisa_ ,” the redhead broke off with a gasp, spinning quickly in the powdery snow and kicking up dust as he turned to the others. His entire front - Stark grey trimmed with black - was covered in blood; patches from arrow punctures, and then all around his neck from what should have been a slit throat. Benjen felt weak at the sight of the smudged, dry and flaking blood that was caked on his neck, despite there being no wound. “Where’s my wife? Jon? Sansa? Where am I - I need to go back, I need to get back to--”

He took a few faltering steps forward and the two Stark lookalikes were there to support him, the man and young woman.

 _This is not possible,_ thought Benjen, horror stealing over him as his eyes darted from one sibling to the next. _This is not possible - Robb is ten, Sansa eight. And yet - these are my nieces and nephews, all the same, but grown…_

The Stark-looking man - _Jon_ , _it’s_ Jon! - looked up with a frown. “We’re north of the wall. I - I swore vows here…”

“But - how?” murmured Sansa, glancing at him.

 _Was there a veil? Was he seeing a vision of the future?_ thought Benjen, wondering why none of them turned and saw him and his men standing there, silent and gaping.

“The last I remember, I was in Winterfell, and Daenerys had --” she broke off and shivered, blue eyes haunted.

Jon’s mouth tightened into a flat line, turning a questing gaze on the girl - Arya - helping him hold up Robb.

“Winterfell,” she agreed. “Stabbed.”

Understanding, sour, appeared on Robb’s face. “The Twins. The wedding.”

Rickon gave a small snuffle against Sansa, but muttered, “The arrows. Ramsay.”

They turned their eyes as one to the only other who had not spoken up, Brandon - Benjen’s brother’s namesake - and watched as he writhed in the snow, gasping for breaths and shuddering. There was something removed from Sansa’s face as she looked down at her younger brother; Arya’s was frighteningly blank, and Jon’s contorted.

“What did you _do_ , Bran?” Jon finally demanded.

“Jon, Jon, I can’t see!” gasped Bran, eyes wide open and white. “I can’t - I can’t see -- it’s not there anymore, I can’t fly --”

For a moment, disgust slipped over Arya’s face before smoothing. “Good.”

“Good?” echoed Robb, his cheeks red and fury in his eyes. “What in the seven’s name is going on here?! Arya, let go - help Bran up --”

“Is he?” asked Sansa quietly.

Robb snarled at her, “Is he what, Sansa? _Our brother?_ It’s Bran - he’s crippled - help him--”

Robb made a move to step forward, out of Jon and Arya’s arms, but Jon threw an arm out and pushed him back, dark eyes on Bran despite Robb turning and snarling at him. There was a fury and wildness in Robb that Benjen had never seen, something that frightened him and reminded him greatly of Brandon at his worst in the days following the raven speaking of Lyanna’s kidnapping.

“Damnit, Snow, move!”

“Is that you, Bran?” asked Jon instead, a mildly placid tone. “How many eyes do you have, now?”

Bran was still shuddering his breaths, gritting his teeth as he pulled himself up on his elbows to glare at Jon, even as he dragged himself back to see the siblings. His eyes were no longer white when they locked on Ned’s bastard. They were dark instead. “Just the two, Jon! Gods, it hurts as bad as it did when I first fell!”

“Just the two?” confirmed Sansa, inching the tiniest bit closer.

“Why wouldn’t he have two eyes?” demanded Robb, struggling against Jon’s arm across his chest. It was then that Benjen noticed details he hadn’t seen earlier: Jon was slightly taller, broader, with lines around his eyes from stress. Jon was barely a few moons younger than Robb, but here… standing side-by-side, Jon was in truth _years_ older than Robb. And, as Benjen glanced at Sansa and Arya, so were the girls. But that wasn’t right - Robb was the eldest, then Sansa - not Jon, Sansa, and then Robb…

“Help me up, Jon! Sansa!” cried Bran, twisting his head to look at them both. “Help me - I need to go - I need to _see_ \--”

Jon snorted, letting his arm drop. “You lost yourself when you were the raven, Bran. I’ll not help you become him again.” He glanced at Arya and Sansa. “It’s our brother and not Rivers.”

“So that may be,” began Sansa, a bit scathingly, “But the last I checked, I was being burned alive by dragon fire - a last-ditch attempt, I’m guessing. How am I alive, Bran? Because _you_ are the only person I know with that kind of power.”

“Bran?” sputtered Robb, fury receding into confusion. “What are you talking about, Sansa?”

At his side, Arya’s lips curled into a tiny, dark smirk. “ _Valar morghulis_.”

Jon whirled and barred his teeth at her. “Do _not_ utter High Valyrian around me, Arya!”

The girl shrugged. “It is true: all men must die. Yet, we say ‘not today’ to the God of Death.” There was a glint in her eyes when she finished, “And all men must serve.”

Jon gave a strangled shout of frustration, turning from the Stark clan and as he did so, his eyes fell on Benjen and the other silent brothers of the Night’s Watch. His eyes widened. “Fuck.”

* * *

Any other day and Benjen would feel _terrible_ that he left Edd to deal with the new recruits beyond the Wall, but today - Benjen found himself lost as he led his nieces and nephews to Castle Black, although when Jeor Mormont met him at the gates, eyes wide, Benjen found he didn’t have an answer for him.

It was telling though, that as soon as they stepped into the castle proper, how Jon’s posture changed. He stood straighter, taller, eyes wary and glinting as they moved from one member to the next, a mildly blank face of polite disinterest on his face as his eyes skipped over Thorne and Marsh. When Benjen said they were going to go to the Lord Commander’s office to speak, Jon nodded and _led the way_.

He had been a brother; in whatever future, he came from.

But Sansa - oh, _Sansa_ \- she knew the way just as well, and how could that be possible? She took up a point beside Jon, her hand curled into the crook of his arm and Benjen stared, mouth open. The last Ned told him, Sansa had taken to her mother’s bias and ignored Jon where she could - and yet looking at them here, it was clear they were the two closest siblings now.

Even Robb was looking at them strangely when he wasn’t scowling or looking at the ground. Even as he did so, though, Benjen felt fear clench tight around his heart as the weak sunlight glittered off the crown he wore.

 _A crown!_ He fussed, thinking what that meant.

Arya seemed placid as she took in the sights like she was taking a stroll through the glass gardens at Winterfell, while Rickon vibrated in energy, snarling, and snapping, whenever he felt someone looked at him too long.

Alyn had returned with Benjen, helping him carry Bran _whose legs were broken_ ; his brother’s namesake could not walk.

What had happened to the Starks?

They drew a crowd as they strode through the castle, Jeor at the rear and barking sharp commands behind them to disperse the crowd, although Jon turned at one point and requested, “Maester Aemon should join us.”

“Are you sure--?” asked Sansa, looking at Jon.

He nodded once, sharply, at her, and she gave a slow nod back.

When they entered Mormont’s rooms, the Starks arranged themselves strangely, while Jeor stood behind his desk and Benjen stood near the door, Alyn having disappeared to fetch Aemon. Jon stood next to the fireplace while Sansa detached herself and went to the opposite side of the room and furthest from the fire. Arya moved to stand next to Sansa, and Bran was placed in the comfiest chair they had, grimacing in pain but no longer crying, despite the frozen tracks on his cheeks. Rickon prowled the edges of the room, hating the confined space before he finally found a corner, the space between the fireplace and wall, partially hidden by Jon’s bulk, and Robb sat in Jeor’s other free chair, stiff-backed but looking like he owned the room.

Despite the battle lines being drawn and the shifting of familial alliances, they were all rough, like wolves licking at their individual wounds and snapping and snarling at anyone else who got too close to them, their pride and hurt open for everyone to see. Benjen had never seen such divided siblings in his life.

Aemon arrived, confused, and Robb gave his chair to the man, standing behind Bran instead.

Behind them, Alliser Thorne slinked in and shut the door.

Jeor began, eyes drifting from one to the next when he asked, “You are Ned’s children? But… older?”

Sansa nodded.

“How?”

All eyes turned to Bran out of the children, who, feeling the weight of them, stirred from the dead eye gazing he was doing to answer Jeor. “I can see the past and the present. I have travelled to the past before, but not… physically.”

“Impossible,” spat Thorne.

“Improbable,” corrected Bran mildly, although there was a slump to him and a deadness to his voice that Benjen didn’t like. “But doable when I was being trained by the Three-Eyed Raven.”

Behind him, Robb muttered, “What is this importance for all of you and eyes?”

Bran turned to his older brother. “Because you can see better, see more, with more eyes.”

Robb’s brow furrowed, and Bran continued.

“I was the Three-Eyed Raven. I saw what was happening, what _could_ happen, but…” he trailed off. “I was never good at seeing the future, not like him. I saw what was happening in the here and now, and it hurt.”

“Like who?” demanded Jeor, picking up on what Bran wasn’t saying.

“The one who trained me,” answered Bran.

“Who?” demanded Jeor again. “Some wildling from beyond? A skinchanger?”

The look Bran gave Jeor was one of utter contempt. “From the one who has a thousand eyes, and one.”

Aemon gave a soft gasp. “No…”

All turned to Aemon, who was facing Bran, although he could not see the younger Stark. “He still lives?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Bran after a moment’s hesitation.

“Who?” demanded Jeor, again, although exasperation leaked into his voice.

“My great-uncle,” breathed Aemon, unseeing eyes wide, “Brynden Rivers. The Bloodraven.”

Silence descended on the room and Bran took the opportunity to continue.

“I saw what was happening, I reached for my family, throughout time, and sought to bring up together in our final moments,” the young man explained. He gave a tiny shrug. “I suppose I was holding on to us too tightly and thinking of safety when it all happened.”

“You are saying that you brought all of you Starks from the future to _now_?” gaped Jeor, disbelief strong in his voice.

“Thanks so much, Bran,” muttered Arya, arms tightly crossed.

Bran turned to scowl at Arya. “I didn’t _mean_ to - I lost control when _he_ showed up--”

“Of course, you did,” muttered Jon snidely.

Robb turned to his brother and snapped, “Watch your tone, Snow--”

But Jon rolled his eyes and ignored Robb’s sputtering.

“I really didn’t _mean_ to!” protested Bran, his voice rising at the end. His eyes implored each of his siblings to believe him. “I really didn’t! I just - it was the end - and we were all - so I thought --” he slumped in his seat and finished miserably, “I just wanted us to be together again, like before. Before it all went to hell.”

“Perhaps I am missing something,” began Aemon cautiously, “But when were you from?”

“Three-hundred AC,” said Robb immediately, speaking on the subject with authority ringing in his voice.

“Robb died first.” Sansa snorted. “He knows the least of us. He knows practically nothing.”

At the phrase, Jon’s mouth quirked up into a small, sad smile.

Robb scowled at his sister. “I know things!”

“Three-oh-five,” interrupted Arya, “For the rest of us, except Rickon. He was killed in three-oh-three.”

“Gods,” muttered Jeor, eyeing them, “That’s three-and-ten years from now.”

Benjen stared at Robb, at his iron crown. “You were… you were King in the North?”

Robb inclined his head. “Aye.”

“Fat lot of good he was,” muttered Arya. “Less King in the North and more like the King Who _Lost_ the North.”

Robb whipped his head around and wordlessly snarled at his younger sister ( _Was_ she though?), who looked entirely unbothered by his pulled-back lips and flashing eyes.

Alliser Thorne barely smothered a laugh.

“And where were _you_ when I was fighting a war against the Lannisters for Sansa and Father’s safe return, Arya?” demanded Robb sharply. “Since all reports we had were that you were dead or in the wind!”

“The Riverlands,” the girl responded airly. “Harrenhal, for a time, as Tywin’s cupbearer, not that he ever knew it. Braavos, then, mostly. Until I returned to Westeros and murdered every single Frey for their actions at your wedding.”

Robb blinked in surprise, reeling back the tiniest. “I - oh.” He narrowed his eyes at her, speculatively. “Revenge?”

Arya inclined her head now, mimicking him.

“Oh,” repeated Robb, quieter. “Thank you.”

“But how?” sputtered Benjen, trying to decipher all he heard. “The Lannisters? Ned? What happened at this wedding, Robb? Whose wedding was it?”

“Joffrey executed Father and Robb called the banners,” explained Bran, with weariness seeping into every word. “He marched south and won his battles, taking Jaime Lannister prisoner. Then Mother let him go after he vowed to find Sansa and Arya and bring them home safely. Robb lost most of his support then.”

“You’re forgetting the part where he took a foreigner from Volantis as a wife,” added Jon pointedly. “Given that he was betrothed to a Frey, breaking his vows.”

Jon turned to Benjen and said, in a mock whisper, “That’s why they shot him full of arrows and cut his head off, Uncle - they took offence to the slight he caused and didn’t think Edmure Tully was a worthy replacement for a _king_.”

“At least he was fucking a foreigner rather than his aunt when he lost the North and his crown,” spat Sansa bitterly. “What excuse did _you_ have, Jon? You bent your knee within hours of arriving at Dragonstone. Did you give the North away _before_ or _after_ you fucked Daenerys?”

Jon’s face - full of bitter mirth when he spoke of Robb’s failures - went straight past hard to icy in a span of a single second, while Benjen, Jeor, Aemon, and even Robb reeled back in shock at the words coming from Sansa Stark of all people.

“Sansa!” Benjen cried, taking a few steps closer to her. Her Tully-blue eyes moved and pierced him, freezing Benjen midstep. He stuttered, “W-What do you mean - aunt - and - and _Daenerys Targaryen_?”

Jon stifled a sigh. There was a hard look sent at Sansa when he turned to the fireplace beside him and thrust his entire arm into the flame.

Benjen shouted and Robb cried out in alarm - Jeor leapt to his feet, sending his chair flying back - Alliser Thorne even stepped forward in shock -

They should have realized when the others made no move to help their sibling. They should have realized when Jon’s face held nothing but boredom, instead of excruciating agony.

He withdrew his arm from the fire, the sleeve of his tunic flaking away around his unburnt arm. Everyone’s eyes were on the shiny, pink skin, and Jon flexed his hand and wiggled the fingers for them.

Jeor fell heavily back into his chair.

“Fire cannot harm a dragon,” said Bran to the quiet of the room.

“Holy fuck,” said Alliser, before he fell over on his ass.

* * *

TBC...


End file.
